A New Flower
by Ella Rosier
Summary: 15 years after the rebellion Katniss gives in to Peeta's pleading and is now the mother of a beautiful baby girl. Who will the daughter of the Mockingjay become? *Was a oneshot but decided to continue as long as my inspiration lasts.*
1. Chapter 1

In district twelve, everyone knows everyone. Or, at least, everyone knows me and Peeta.

So now I'm regretting my decision to have her at home, everyone is at our door, they might as well just break it down, barge in and attack us with their flowers and gifts.

They don't want to attack us, I assure myself. They just want to see my baby girl, they just want to congratulate us. They're just neighbours with flowers and baking and tiny sweaters they've spent time knitting. They're our friends, they want to see us happy, me happy.

But all I want is to hold her and stare at her, I don't want her to leave my arms or my sight. I want to protect her.

When I was pregnant, when she was inside of me, it was easy to protect her. I dreaded the day that she would be outside of me, in a world that could harm her, that could take her away from me. And now, here she is, big blue eyes staring up at me, and I've never been more scared in my life.

"Haymitch is manning the door. If anyone knows how to get rid of people quickly..."

I hadn't even heard him come back in the room, but he's at the foot of the bed, blue eyes fixed intently on me. We haven't been alone since she was born. The midwife left maybe an hour ago, but Greasy Sae and her granddaughter Mari were here with me until twenty minutes ago. Then they went to help Peeta deal with the visitors, and now I guess they're either helping Haymitch or they've gone home.

I try to get my thoughts straight in my head, I look from Peeta's concerned blue eyes, to my daughter's sleepy face, then back at Peeta. And he looks so worried, why are people always so worried about me? And that's when I burst into tears.

He's at my side in an instant, holding me, holding both of us. I bury my head in his shoulder. "I don't know how to do this." I whisper, fighting to regain control of myself. "I don't know how Peeta."

He takes my face in his hands, forces me to look at him, straight into his kind blue eyes that our daughter has now inherited. "Katniss," He says firmly. "I don't know how either. I've never raised a child before. I've never been a father. But we're going to be fine. She's going to be fine." He wipes the tears from my face, his eyes never leaving mine. "Alright?"

This is why I need Peeta. He is my voice of reason, my sanity, just as I am his. When the flashbacks leave him breathless and half crazed, I am the one who holds and calms him. He is the one who I reach for in the dark, when the nightmares leave me screaming. We would be lost without each other.

I take several deep breaths and use my free hand, the one not holding my daughter, to wipe the rest of the tears from my face. He lets me go and sits back on the edge of the bed, although one of his hands rests comfortingly on my arm. Then he smiles at me, and I manage to smile back. "Alright." I reply.

"Good." He says, "And I believe the first thing parents are supposed to do are give their child a name." He's smiling while he says it, but there's some tension in his voice, and his hand on my arm feels heavy, like he's worried I might break down crying again. Of course, I might, if I hadn't already thought this through. I already know her name. But I haven't told him, we haven't even talked about it. I knew if I asked he would suggest names that I could never use. Names that hold too much sadness in them. I will have to say my daughter's name aloud name every day, and if I have to use one of those names...

"Have you thought about it?" He asks. His smile has faded somewhat. "I thought maybe a flower..."

"Yes." I agree, cutting him off before he suggests one of those forbidden names. "I thought about that too." And now I'm worried that he won't agree, that he won't like it. A memory from some long ago time creeps into my head, how silly I thought the names of the district two tributes were. I push the thought away before it can mutate into horrible memories, and force myself back into the present.

"Dandelion." I say.

He's surprised, I can tell from the look on his face. This wasn't what he was expecting. But in a split second he's covered up his surprise and he's smiling. "Dandelion?"

"Danny." I continue, "We can call her Danny."

"Danny," He repeats, and his smile widens.

"You like it?" I ask, although I know that even if he doesn't he will agree with me.

"It's perfect."


	2. Chapter 2

They come once a year, cameras and lights and microphones. They invade our house like some it's sort of beehive, working so quickly, all the electronics even adding a buzzing effect. And my mother, in some strange way, is the Queen bee that the whole circus revolves around.

When I was little it didn't bother me. Perhaps it confused me a bit, but at first I was fascinated by the strange people, people who weren't from District 12. Octavia with her golden tattoos and long grey hair, Venia who gushed over me and gave me candy, and Effie with her coloured wigs and high heeled shoes. Every year Effie had a different coloured wig perched delicately on her head. When I was 5 I asked why her hair changed colour and my father just laughed and said it wasn't her real hair. I'd heard Octavia telling my mother once that coloured hair and skin had long since gone out of fashion in the Capital, part thanks to her, but that Effie couldn't quite let it go.

When I was little they would put my in pretty dresses and I didn't mind at all smiling and twirling for the cameras. In fact, I'd enjoyed it because it was something different, something exciting. Back then I was too young to notice how tense the camera's made my mother, how my father would smile for these people but there was no sign of joy in his eyes. A picture from the photo shoot when I was 7 sits on our mantle above the fireplace. My smiling father with one hand around my mother's waist, the other on my shoulder. Me in my pretty plaid dress, missing both my front teeth. Lark in my mother's arms, with his chubby cheeks and blonde curls, reaching up to pull my her hair. I know my father chose to put that picture up because it's the only one from any of the photo shoot pictures where she's smiling.

I hear a noise behind me that pulls me back to the present. I've been so still in my perch, some twenty feet up the tree, that the deer has actually walked into shooting range, unaware of my presence here. I raise my crossbow and shoot before the animal even has time to notice me. It's a clean kill, and she falls instantly, the arrow through her eye.

My mother taught me with a standard bow and arrow, starting when I was about 10. I begged her until she finally gave in, as long as I promised I would never go into the woods without her. Of course it was only months until I broke that promise. Haymitch was the one who gave me the crossbow, for my twelfth birthday. My mother had made a face when she saw the fancy weapon, and Haymitch retorted with "Come on, we can't have her be exactly like her mother. One Katniss is enough, that's for sure." Good old Haymitch knows exactly what to say to get under your skin. From that day on I hunted only with my crossbow.

I lower myself from the tree, swinging on a low hanging branch and letting myself drop the last five feet. I smile as I land near noiselessly on the solid ground. I might as well enjoy myself since I've decided to disappear for the morning, and no doubt will be in trouble for it later. Especially today, of all days.

Part of me wants to stay out here all day, wait until sunset to sneak back home, avoid the cameras completely. But then they would just come back some other time, since I know they'll never go away completely. It's not that I'm not good in front of the cameras. In fact I'm perfectly comfortable being interviewed and photographed. My little brother's the shy one, so I always make them interview us together. He's cute enough for both of us combined and I can tell a story in a way that makes people listen. I can make them laugh, I could probably make them cry if I wanted to. But that's the kind of thing I try to avoid at home, people crying.

I locate where the deer has fallen, it was a clean shot. She probably didn't even have time to notice her death, to take in what was happening. And now I can come home with a full game bag. It's not that we lack food, we could eat cake all day if we wanted, but a tiny part of me is starting to feel guilty for leaving my family to deal with the cameras without me. They don't know that I plan to come back in time to actually participate, they probably think I will stay out here all day. They'll know where I am, but not when I plan to return.

I push the thoughts away as I reach the deer and retrieve my arrow, wiping the blood off on a clump of grass. At least Granny Sae will be happy. She never minds me bringing home fresh meat.

I'm alerted to the fact that I'm not alone by the slightest rustle of leaves.

The fawn is staring straight at me, it's large eyes fixed on my face. It has a lost look in it's eyes that is eerily human. And the reality of what I've just done hits me, at the same time as the reality of what I must do now.

No fawn that young could survive a day without it's mother. And the mother of this one is dead from my arrow.

Last year they brought a new interviewer along with the team of people from the Capital. He was young, and probably inexperienced, or maybe just tactless. He had commented on my recent growth spurt. "You must be as tall as your mother now!"

"I think I have an inch on her, actually." I'd replied, smiling at the camera.

"Well so you must fit into her clothes! Got a chance to try on the famous Mockingjay outfit yet, Danny?"

"That's enough!" My mother had yelled, making everyone jump. In the silence that followed she had found my eyes. She had looked so lost.

"Yes, I think we've got all we need for today." Effie had said, coming to the rescue, "Good, very good everyone."

The fawn won't survive without it's mother. This death will be faster, easier than being taken down by wild dogs when she's alone and frightened in the middle of the night. Still, I feel horrible as I raise my bow. The fawn doesn't move, it just stares at me.

My arrow meets it's mark.


	3. Chapter 3

(A.N: Okay so I'm going to start putting whose point of view this is from at the start of the chapter, because in the last chapter several people were confused about who's point of view the chapter was from. Also, I don't know if I'm going to be updating this more, I apologize for not updating it sooner, but I really haven't had inspiration, but I'm almost finished re-reading the books again and was inspired to add a little bit to this.)

Katniss:

I sit on a stage, gazing into a sea of children, several hundred of them. None of them are smiling, some are shaking even. Grouped together by age, facing towards me, some looking directly at me. And as I look around, the scene becomes more and more familiar. The two giant glass balls with strips of paper inside of them, the camera crews perched on the rooftops of buildings, the banners bearing the seal of Panem.

I have never seen it from the perspective before. I have been one of the onlookers, who are packed in around the roped off area, holding hands, some caring, some not. I have been one of the children, staring up at the huge glass orbs, wondering if the odds are with me. I have even been a tribute, pulled onstage to be sent to what should have been my death, but I have never sat in the chair of a victor. A mentor. The horror of it takes me by surprise as I realize that's what I am doing there, my stomach turns over. This is the reaping.

But as I become aware of the fact that I am a mentor I realize also that my name is not in the huge glass ball containing the names of all the girl's age twelve to eighteen from District 12. My name cannot be called. I will not be a tribute.

Yet still, I will be going back to the capitol, I will be training a girl, who will most likely not return home to District 12, but it will not be me in that arena. I relax slightly, knowing that Effie Trinket, who I realize at that exact moment is sitting to my right, her hair the colour of pink frosting on one of Pita's cakes, will not be plucking a piece of paper with my name on it out of the orb.

And at the same time as I realize Effie is to my right I realize there is someone to my left as well, someone who is holding my hand.

Peeta's his face is pale, there are large circles under his eyes, as if he has not slept for days. He looks at me, tries to smile, but it seems as if his muscles don't remember how. "It will all be okay." He says. And I don't know what he's talking about.

Of course it won't be okay.

We are going back to the capitol, we are going to be mentoring two young children who will likely, even with us training them, doing all we can, have the odds stacked against them. I stare at him for a moment, wanting to say something, but then the Mayor is talking. Giving the history of Panem. I know it by heart, I could probably recite it line by line. Then he reads the list of champions, and Peeta and I stand, hand in hand, staring out across the crowd. There is polite applause, which is more than I had expected. I don't want to look into the faces of those children. I don't want to look at their families either, and I definitely don't want to look at the cameras, into the eyes of the entire country. So I direct my gaze towards one of the banners hanging from the rooftops, staring at it but not really seeing it.

Effie takes the microphone and the Mayor, Peeta and I take our seats. Peeta is squeezing my hand so tightly it's going numb. I don't understand it, his name is not going to be called. We are safe.

Effie is wearing dangerously high heels that are a stunning aqua colour and a bright orange dress. It makes her look more out of place than ever among the simply dressed coal miners of district 12. "If you put enough pressure on coal, it turns into diamonds." If we could turn coal into diamonds then half of our district wouldn't be starving, slaving away to just make it through one more day. But this was Effie's ridiculous slogan that she used to try and get us sponsors. What will we do to try and get our tributes sponsors?

Effie is as hard to bear as ever as she simpers 'Happy Hunger Games! And may the odds be ever in your favor! I am so excited to be here today.' She pauses, 'How about another round of applause for Panem's two favourite victors!'

The camera's are locked on Peeta and I as the crowd claps for us once again. For a moment I hate Effie, I want to yell at her to just get it over with. But at the same time, I don't want to see the face of the girl who I will watch die in the arena. Haymitch was right for so many years not to get attached.

'Wonderful, wonderful!' Effie gushes. 'And I think it's time to find out who this year's tributes are! Maybe someone will get to steal some of our current victors' glory! Let's find out who the lucky lady will be.'

She saunters over to the glass ball with the girls names in it. Peeta, who must know the cameras are now all fixed on Effie, leans over and whispers in my ear, so quietly I can barely hear him. 'It won't be her, she has no tesserae.'

Effie has pulled a name out of the glass orb, and is crossing back to the podium, unfolding the piece of paper.

'Four entries, that's all.' He says, and it's at the same time that Effie reads the name that I finally understand what he means.

'Dandelion Mellark'

I am screaming, but it's like I'm underwater and my screams are silenced. I see the ducktail of Prim's shirt. Rue in the net, screaming my name, the three mutts tearing at Finnick, and roses, hundreds of hundreds of roses, soaked and dripping in blood.

'Katniss!' The only voice that can pierce through the nightmares is calling me back. 'Katniss, please!' The images are fading, 'Katniss wake up!'

I cry in his arms for a few minutes, as he rocks me slowly back to reality. He tells me who I am in soft whispers, 'You're name is Katniss Mellark..." pausing between sentences to kiss my head, my cheeks, my hair. But never letting go.

Never letting go.


End file.
